“The troops will deserve their parades. I have no patience for anyone who forgets who’s doing the fighting. Those men out there are giving more to this war than we have.”
Churchill downed the rest of the brandy, wiped a sleeve across his mouth.
“Oh fine, yes, stand up for your men. That’s your job, isn’t it? I agree, we must build our monuments, and lay out our cemeteries. We must honor the dead and we must not forget them. Hallowed ground. That’s what Lincoln insisted upon, right?”
He was surprised by the depth of Churchill’s anger, far more fury than Churchill usually allowed himself to display.
“I meant that the fighting men deserve their due. Too many generals think they are the reason we are winning this war.”
“Forget it, Ike. You said the right thing. No argument there. But make no mistake. The Russians believe their ground is more hallowed than ours. They’ve given a great deal more in lost lives than we have. Woe is them, for they have borne the greater burden of suffering. I heard that kind of speech every damn day. And what does Uncle Joe want in return? The answer to that question put your people to obsequious generosity. I’ve never seen so much deference paid in my life. No one stood up to him, none of your spineless diplomats, and not your president. Well, by damn, I stood up to him, and all I got for it was a condescending harrumph from both of them, Stalin and Roosevelt. They might as well have spent the week holding hands, like two lovers in a flower patch. After a while, it was plainly apparent that I was becoming quite the bother. So they sought to pump me full of vodka, hoping I would shut the hell up. And, in the meantime, among other outrages, they took it upon themselves to determine the fate of the entire Polish people. That’s what really punched me, Ike. We have sacrificed the Poles, ceded the control of their country to Uncle Joe’s puppets. And Franklin went along with it. Or, worse, he was oblivious.” Churchill stopped, eyed Eisenhower with another tilt of his head.
Eisenhower said, “It’s okay. Nothing you say leaves this room.”
Churchill leaned forward, one hand wiping his brow.
“That’s never true. Ever. No insult intended, but what I say here will be said again, and written about and analyzed and argued over. The British people have not yet absorbed what our place is in this New World Order. We are quite accustomed to being somewhere close to the top of the pyramid, so to speak. Now we are likely to end up down somewhere alongside the French. Excuse the pun, dear boy, but to an Englishman, that is the most galling thing one can imagine.”
“I wasn’t aware the Russians were setting up any kind of government in Poland. I know that Marshal Zhukov’s forces have liberated almost the whole country, driven the Germans completely away. I thought that was the idea.”
Churchill studied him, seemed to test if Eisenhower was serious.
“You have your head buried in the western campaigns. Your job, I suppose. But last August, the Russians showed us what they intended for Poland. It amazes me that some people still don’t understand what truly happened there.”
“You mean … Warsaw.”
“Yes, dammit! Warsaw!” Churchill was shouting now, red-faced, and Eisenhower was suddenly concerned, eyed him carefully. Churchill slapped the desk with a heavy hand, was still shouting. “The Russians marched right up to the gates of the city and gave assurances to the Polish people, to the underground resistance, that they were coming in to do the job, to crush the Germans, drive them out straight away, to liberate the city! And then … they stopped! The Germans knew they were in trouble, were already planning their retreat, didn’t want to try to hold on to such a difficult place to defend. Surely you saw the same Ultra reports I did. As the Germans were starting their withdrawal, the Russians encouraged the Poles to rise up, to join in the glorious fight for their freedom, and it worked. Perfectly! Just when those people came out of their bunkers and cellars and opened up their secret stashes of weapons, the Russians pulled back, stopped fighting, stopped shelling. They just stopped. You know what happened next? The German generals realized that maybe they weren’t in trouble after all. And so, they had a truly marvelous time of it. They obliterated the Polish people. It was a massacre. The Polish underground was erased, and every Pole who stood his ground, who attempted to fight for his own city, was promptly crushed under German boots. And still the Russians sat on their perches and waited. We tried to help, airdrops, supplies and munitions, long-range bombers hitting German targets in the city, but those bombers were denied permission to land in Russian territory to refuel. Denied. They’re our allies, by damn!” Churchill stopped, was breathing heavily, seemed to catch his breath, calming himself. He raised the empty glass toward Eisenhower, the obvious request. Eisenhower poured the remnants of the bottle into Churchill’s glass, slid it across the desk. Churchill stared at the dark liquid, seemed suddenly very sad.
“There is so much stupidity in politics. Like your man Harriman, in Moscow. Ambassador Harriman. Stalin’s friend, because he only sees what Uncle Joe allows him to see. He doesn’t understand to this day that what the Russians did at Warsaw was to invite the Germans to eliminate all those Polish leaders who would be there to welcome their liberation by forming a legitimate Polish government, a non-communist government. The Russians sat right outside the city and let the Germans do their dirty work for them. That sound a little harsh, Ike? You think I’m being too cynical, that your Ambassador Harriman is accurate in his optimism? Your president left Yalta believing that all is right with the world, that our enemy is about to go down to defeat, and that we shall celebrate the victory with our good friends in Moscow.” He paused, picked up the cigar again, rolled it in his fingers. “I love that man, I truly do. We would not be where we are right now without Roosevelt. But I’m afraid for him, Ike. He wasn’t healthy. Hell, I’m not in such dandy shape myself. Neither are you, most likely. All of us are worn out by this, tired of carrying such full plates.”
“The soldiers are in a little worse shape.”
“Yes, yes, fine. Don’t scold me, Ike. I’m not pouring out self-pity here. All I’m telling you is that those young men in all those graveyards were once told that this fight was essential, that if we did not win, it might threaten our very survival on this earth. What I’m telling you, and what your president does not seem to understand, is that, yes, we will defeat the Germans. But that will not end the war.”
WEST OF DAHLEM, GERMANY
MARCH 6, 1945
The thaw had come, warm air that stripped the trees of snow and turned the ground to a glue-like muck. The roads were not much better, the heavy armor crushing what pavement there was to a jumble of cracks and upended rock. The men still dug foxholes, of course, an easier job in the softer ground, though the mud was far more likely to fill your boots now than before, no freezing nights to stiffen the ground where the men might have to sleep. Benson wasn’t complaining.
They marched only in daylight, advancing on an enemy who still kicked up a fight, who staged ambushes and laid booby traps with frightening efficiency. At night, the work was left to the artillery, American units blanketing the ground all out in front of their own infantry, what the foot soldiers considered to be a perfect substitute for night patrols. Benson didn’t complain about that either.
The mud was not the worst part of the early spring. As the snow disappeared, the ground gave up the bodies of so many who had died throughout the winter’s battles, some from well before the German thrust in mid-December. As the soldiers marched eastward, any open field could offer up a fresh wave of stink, the sickening smell of once-frozen men whose bodies now were opening up to every kind of biological violation. The smells came from other sources too, of course, immense numbers of farm animals, cattle mostly, carcasses upturned, some scattered among the faceless corpses of soldiers. Benson had noticed more of the horrific green skin of the German dead, what someone said was caused by the poor diet of their soldiers. After so many days, the sights failed to sicken, too many to notice, Benson’s brain masking it a
ll. But there was no escaping the awful smell, though after a time even that became acceptable, a strange kind of normal that infested the muddy German countryside.
But there could still be shock. They had approached a small German village, no danger, the place cleared earlier by patrols that had chased the last of the snipers away. But the German soldiers had left behind a vivid symbol of what could happen to anyone who might have betrayed the cause, any civilian who might have done some good deed, showing kindness to an American, perhaps taking in a wounded GI. No matter how much they had become used to the bodies and the smells, there had been a sight that broke through the numb acceptance. Benson and the rest of Williamson’s platoon had passed by a body in the ditch. It was a woman, her clothes ripped completely away, her body violated in graphically obscene ways, and the final obscenity, her corpse slit lengthwise down the center. She had been left beside the road in what was surely a purposeful message, one final act of indecency. The GIs who had grown numb to so many horrors could not pass her by without a response. Anger came first, eruptions of fury, calls for revenge toward anyone whose soul could allow them to commit such an act against anyone, especially one of their own people. Benson had not lingered, one hard look had been all he could absorb. But others did, some of the men defying Williamson’s order to move on by burying the corpse where she lay. With the woman’s remains set deep into the muddy ground, the talk continued, even as they marched, angry grumbling of what they would do to the men who could commit this kind of atrocity. Benson had stayed quiet, had done all he could to erase her image from his mind. Beside him, Mitchell had been silent as well, but Benson knew him, knew that the woman’s grisly death would add one more bit of fuel to the fiery hatred Mitchell could not conceal. Even Williamson seemed affected, a brief conversation with Sergeant Higgins, that it must surely have been one of the SS officers, the troops most rabidly loyal to Hitler. Benson had heard that conversation, tried to understand the lieutenant’s logic. It was Mitchell who had spoken up, his own simple statement.
“A Kraut’s a Kraut.”
They had moved past more of the small villages, some occupied by squads of engineers and the ordnance details, the men who dealt with explosives, called in to sweep away any obvious booby traps or deal with blasted roadways, missing bridges. Benson had been impressed by their work, a scramble of activity on the roads as the engineers laid out wire or rock to repair water-filled craters or washouts, shoring up the wet pathways to allow vehicles to pass that way once again. The engineers seemed to have more information about what was happening to the front, and as infantry moved past the workers, Williamson and the company commander had spoken to the engineering officers, brief meetings, maps spread on the hoods of dirty jeeps. Word had come down from the 106th’s command to expect a stiff fight, but the engineers reported something different. Many of the German units in front of them had been weakened, entire battalions of enemy troops just disappearing. Speculation was rampant, some of the men assuming the Germans were simply giving up and going home. But the officers had a different view, Benson overhearing the captain talking about the Russians, noting that far to the east the fight was going very badly for the Germans, and surely they were responding to the Russian offensive by shifting troop strength away from the west. In some of the village bivouacs, there had been mail, and with the mail had come copies of Stars and Stripes, the army newspaper confirming what the captain had said, headlines about the enormous power of the Russian thrust, that German commanders had no choice but to weaken the Western Front to help defend against the wave of Russians surging forward into German territory. The soldiers knew very well that that kind of news was spouted out to boost the morale of the Americans, and Benson knew that there was much more going on than Stars and Stripes would ever tell them. But they didn’t need a newspaper to tell them that the enemy they now encountered was far weaker, with much poorer equipment and a will to fight that was noticeably draining away. Prisoners were common now, entire platoons offering themselves up for surrender to the Americans. But not every German had given up his cause. Whether or not the SS units were responsible for the amazing display of atrocities against their own civilians, those troops were still clawing to every inch of soil. The SS had always been tenacious fighters, and along every part of the advance, in the patches of woods or the wreckage of some village, it took far more effort and cost far more casualties to root them out.
The road was an oozing trail of slime, deep ruts filled with soupy liquid. The men stayed out on either side, Benson moving behind Sergeant Higgins, trying to guide his footsteps through the patches of grass. The village in front of them had been visible for a while, the terrain not quite as undulating, the villages less likely to be nestled in the bottom of a mountainous bowl. Williamson led them forward slowly, weaving through the only cover they had, low clumps of brush, the occasional fence line. Benson stepped slowly, keeping rhythm with Mitchell beside him. He glanced to the other side of the road, a low stone fence, men moving close, some kneeling, peering out, their sergeant shoving them back into motion. But so far, there had been nothing, no hint of an enemy.
Williamson stopped them with a silent wave, began checking a map, Lane beside him with the walkie-talkie. Benson was grateful for the momentary rest, flexed his toes, his socks hopelessly soaked. Beside him, Mitchell had found a clump of thick grass, sat down, took inventory of his grenades, a habit now. Benson did the same, counted four, never any different. They had plenty of ammunition, the convoys of supply trucks following their advance, depots moving up consistently, a few miles behind them. There were more hot meals now, and more mail, the trucks unimpeded by the muddy roads the Americans had fought for, lost, and fought for again. Mitchell was eyeing one of the men behind them, and Benson glanced that way, saw one of the newer replacements, wiping his rifle with an oily rag. Mitchell shook his head, looked to the front again, impatient, and Benson watched the new man, only two days on the march, tried to remember his name, thought, I should talk to him. He seems like a nice enough guy. Better than some, for sure. Up front, Williamson was talking on the walkie-talkie, and Benson looked that way, saw Lane sitting close to the lieutenant. He caught the man’s stare, empty eyes looking skyward. Benson glanced up, nothing, the sun fully up, patches of white clouds. He still had no use for Lane, could not forget how much of a son of a bitch the man had been, even if now he seemed to be missing something.
Williamson called out, waving the men to their feet. “Let’s go. Let’s get into the village pretty quick. Some of our armor’s been through here, but I’m not sure where they are now. Keep your eyes open. The town’s not secure.”
Across the road, the other sergeants waved acknowledgment, the fifty-man platoon moving again. Out across the open field, Benson could see more of the company, staying in line with them, two more platoons moving toward the village from another angle. Farther out across the road, a ragged orchard blocked the view, some kind of fruit trees. There were signs of a fight, blasted ground, some of the trees broken and uprooted, but Benson tested the air, no stink of explosives, and he thought, whatever happened here happened a while back. Benson couldn’t help a shiver, thought of the Tiger tanks. Those damn things like orchards. Good place to hide and wait for some idiot ground pounders like us to wander up too close.
The road curved to the right, and Williamson turned to look back, waved the men forward with urgency, said in a low voice, “Farmhouse. Easy!”
Benson moved up, the lieutenant hanging back, allowing Higgins and the squad to move past. Benson saw the windows in the farmhouse, black squares, no glass, movement, a wisp of a curtain. Higgins broke into a run, reached the house, low beside a window, others coming up alongside. Higgins looked back toward the lieutenant, nothing from Williamson, no instruction, the officer just watching them. Higgins slipped around one corner of the house, motioned behind him, Benson following, others with him, staying low and close to the wall. Benson saw the doorway intact, watched Higgins take a deep b
reath. The sergeant reached out, grabbed the door handle, and the anger on his face told Benson the door was locked. Benson knew what Higgins was thinking, had gone through this before. What the hell is wrong with these people? They think locking their doors is gonna keep us out? Higgins seemed to test the door’s strength, one hand pressing against rough wood, and he backed away now, pointed his rifle at the handle.
Suddenly a voice came from inside the house. “Hello! Kamarad! Surrender!”
Higgins still pointed the rifle at the door, motioned with the barrel for Benson to do the same. The sergeant waved the others back behind him, all raising the rifles, aiming at the door. After an agonizing moment, the door opened slightly, one hand protruding, holding a white piece of cloth, shaking it furiously.